


I saw a butt so beautiful I started crying

by Skowronek



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Butts, Crack, Humor, I'm Sorry, M/M, Pictures, Pining, Pining Victor Nikiforov, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 23:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12023058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skowronek/pseuds/Skowronek
Summary: In which Victor notices a skater with a butt so fine it makes him weep.As Victor proceeds to look for the butt's owner, chaos ensues, and sometimes there are happy endings.





	I saw a butt so beautiful I started crying

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SHSLshortie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHSLshortie/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Love Letters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10988220) by [SHSLshortie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHSLshortie/pseuds/SHSLshortie). 



> This is a birthday gift for the beautiful birthday girl [Dani](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SHSLshortie/pseuds/SHSLshortie) <3 
> 
> I think it can be understood without having read her fic first, but this thing is inspired by Dani's fantastic [Love Letters](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10988220/chapters/24471636), especially the art she did for her Chapter 4. It's amazing and I really encourage you to read it - you'll love it as much as I do!

 

 

You know how it is: Victor Nikiforov was no stranger to fame.

His life belonged to him as much as it belonged to glossy magazines and fickle teenage hearts. His face had its place on posters as much as in Victor’s bathroom mirror. His hair – –

No, let’s not go there now.

(Victor’s hair belonged to that one sportswear brand that wanted a deal with Victor but not with Victor’s hair.  In an interview, Victor says he had been _inspired_ to cut it and then winks. The deal brings him a lot of money and a heartbreak. He never discusses any of that).

The point is, you get it. You know how it is. Victor was no stranger to fame. He’d had his fair share of idiotic interviews, paparazzi pictures, and autographs scribbled on unlikely surfaces with improbable utensils. Out of the three, he hated the photographs the most – intrusive, insulting, involuntary. They stood for everything Victor despised.

That was why he felt a pang of shame when he snapped a picture with his phone.

He had an iPhone, a model whose exact name he could never be bothered to remember. He’d bought it, freshly released, a few months back – just because it looked pretty. It was an okay phone – Victor never understood the hype, but as long as it took cute pictures of his dog, he was happy to use it. It looked sleek and smart and fuelled the image he wanted to have – elegant, fashionable, out of reach but close enough.

(That’s what he’d say if asked. But it was really always about all those pictures of Makkachin).

(That is – until then).

Viktor had never understood the thrill of a forbidden picture. Having been an unwilling object of too many photos, far too many times, he could only sympathize with any poor person whose face would be caught in an unflattering grimace forever, stuck in a grainy photo like a ridiculous pixeled puzzle.

And yet here he was now, Viktor Nikiforov, the hero of Russia, the opponent of paparazzi, and the owner of an iPhone with a camera so nice it almost captured the real thing, and _Bozhe moy,_ the real thing was so _nice._

(Viktor couldn’t have nice things. But, Jesus Christ, how he _wanted_ ).

 

_______________________

 

So enthralled was he by the picture that he didn’t notice the object of the photograph walking away, and the major cause of his bad life choices walking up to him.

‘Viiiictor’, Chris grinned like a Cheshire Cat, his smile wide and too disturbing to bear anything good. He was still in his free skate costume, shrill and sparkly in dark hues of green and blue. Victor knew his friend had his hopes up this year but between the two of them, Chris’ programme had weaker technical components. Yet it was his first Senior Grand Prix Final, and Victor felt proud of his friend’s accomplishments anyway.

If only Chris could have chosen a better moment to chitchat.

Victor let his eyes wander, searching for the object of the photo, but in vain. The picture on his phone, saved now to be cherished later, was all he’s got.

‘You’re not listening to me at all’, Chris accused him. ‘Earth to Victor. Repeat, earth to Victor. I said _drinks_ and you’re miles away! Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?’.

 _My name is Victor Nikiforov,_ Victor wants to say, _and I have just seen the greatest butt in the history of all butts._

He wants to say it. He needs to discuss the butt’s perfection, write entire poems about the perkiness of the buttocks, consult biologists all over the world to assert the butt’s evolutional superiority over all other butts he’s ever seen. Chris knew how it was. Christ would understand. But Chris also interrupted Victor’s _moment,_ he destroyed Victor’s chance to come closer to the owner of the butt and bask in the butt’s perfection. Frankly, Victor was seething.

So this is what he said instead:

‘Aren’t you too young to drink in South Korea, Chris?’, and there you go, a playful wink, a toss of the hair, and _I have a butt on my phone so fine it could start a new Trojan War._

 

_______________________

 

Victor did think that his iPhone was an okay phone. Its camera had two megapixels worth of awesomeness, and now these two megapixels did their best to capture the butt.

(To be fair, it has to be said: Victor had started to think about it as The Butt. It went without saying that the butt deserves all the capitalisation it could get. He also still felt vaguely ashamed to have taken a photo without a person’s permission, so he shoved his mind into the trash where he was sure it belonged, and refused to give the butt any names until given the go-ahead by the butt’s owner).

(The permission was, of course, only a matter of time).

Victor was not a religious man. He focused on the here and now, and if he searched for spirituality, it was through his skating. But as he sat on the bench of the Sankt Petersburg ice rink, tuning out the hubbub of the late evening practice, Victor considered that he may have been mistaken. Was there a god of buttocks? There had to be; Victor had enough faith in humanity to be sure that some time, somewhere, some humans must have realized that no perfectly-sculpted butt could be a work of man.

It was the Greeks, Victor thought. Definitely the Greeks.

It was not a flawed assumption, Victor thought, looking at the photo of the butt with something akin to adoration. It must have been the Greeks. Victor did not remember much from his history lessons, but he did do his art research all the time, seeking inspiration in unlikeliest of places, and he knew they had been keen on symmetry. The butt in the picture met all the requirements of harmonious perfection. Victor had never been so grateful for the training regime of a figure skater – he could now see all its benefits in this booty. Ideally round and perky, with just the right hint of firmness, and adorned in the tightest black trousers Victor had ever had the pleasure of appreciating – Victor sighed, dreamily, like a forlorn lover. He figured he was allowed to.

He had tried – and tried, and tried, and _tried –_ to look for the butt man, but with Chris snatching him out to dinner and later with Yakov grumbling his way through an hour-long analysis of Victor’s free skate, the elusive skater had slipped out of his hands and took the wondrous butt with him.

It was, truly, a pity. Victor had spent aeons tracing the man’s figure with his eyes, catching his breath at the dark hair slicked back and wavy and the ends, ever so slightly, with no ounce of effort. Victor felt both envious and in awe. He’d tried to recognize the skater, but he had not remembered any competitor dressed in a costume of hues of white and blue, with a touch of gold.

(And damn, Victor did appreciate the costume’s artistry – it was something he, himself, would wear gladly).

But it was not the costume that got to him – it was the sublime angle of the spine, curving _just so,_ drawing Victor’s eyes and soul to the butt.

Victor was not a religious man, but _sweet Jesus_ did he pray that night.

 

_______________________

 

Two days later, Victor saved the picture as his phone wallpaper.

He did feel vaguely guilty about it; but he looked at the butt as you look at a painting – with both amazement and reverence.

One thing has to be clear: Victor did try to look the skater up. His browser’s history could attest to that.

_perfect butt south korea_

_how to identify a man by his butt_

_how to identify a figure skater by his butt_

_figure skaters with great butts_

The last query did list Victor himself, which, objectively, was amazing and made him puff up with pride. One did not jump those quads for nothing. But there was nothing about the mysterious butt man, no matter how much Victor looked and how specifically he formulated his questions.

There was only one thing to be done.

 

_______________________

 

Victor could rely on Yakov more than he could rely on Google.

Correction: he could rely on Yakov more than he could rely on his quad flip, and that was saying something.

Victor could also rely on Yakov to pick up his phone no matter at what time in the morning Victor called; Yakov could rely on Victor to take advantage of this every single time he had an emergency.

(Victor did not like emergencies as such but they added some colour to his life. And to Yakov’s, certainly, too, so he was really doing them both a favour).

‘Yaaaakov’, Victor whined into his phone. ‘I need your help’.

Next to Victor, on his bed, Makkachin snored. Victor loved his dog – there is no question about it – but he couldn’t comprehend how Makka would just _sleep_ while her dad was living the pivotal moment of his life.

‘Victor’, Yakov grumbled. Viktor figured his coach was too sleepy to shout. ‘What is it this time?’

Victor sighed into the speaker of his phone. It felt good to talk to somebody who always, without question, would help Victor put his life together.

‘Yakov’, Victor whispered, intently. ‘What’s the name of that skater from GP who had a really _lovely_ butt?’

For a few heartbeats, there was silence. Victor could hear Makka’s loud, even breaths, and Yakov’s shallow ones resonated through the speaker. Then, with a beep and a click, Yakov disconnected.

Makka snored.

 

_______________________

 

In the morning, during his ballet class, Victor almost dared to approach Lilia. She was a ballerina – he was sure that of all artists, she alone would know to treasure beauty. And so he traced her figure with hesitant eyes for almost an hour before Lilia approached him herself, corrected his form, and spoke directly into Victor’s ear.

‘If you ever, ever ask me what you asked Yakov last night, I will make sure you will never step away from this barre’.

She moved on, then, not bothering to wait for Victor’s reply.

Victor vowed never to mention the word _butt_ near Lilia again.

 

_______________________

 

At the rink the next day, Victor carried his iPhone like the Olympic torch.

‘Zhora, my friend’, he called, letting his voice carry the hope he felt. ‘Please help me. It’s a matter of the heart’.

Georgi, obediently, skated over to Victor; in the periphery of his sight Victor could see Yakov making a face at them. From earlier experience, he estimated they had about three minutes before their coach exploded.

‘Vitya’, Georgi greeted him, eagerly. ‘Are you in love?’.

Was he? Victor, suddenly, hesitated. Can you love a man by his butt only? He blinked the thought away, focusing on the matter at hand. Shoving the phone into Georgi’s gloved hand, he zoomed in on the picture and looked at his friend with round, hopeful eyes.

‘Zhora’, he said. ‘Please tell me. Whose butt is it?’ .

 

_______________________

 

Georgi, it had turned out, had not been paying attention to their competitors’ assets. Victor, dismayed, let Georgi go, and soon the entire rink threw Victor concerned glances. He didn’t know who had spilled – probably Georgi since Yakov was giving Victor a wide breadth that day – and he did consider approaching all of his rink mates to ask the same question. Surely somebody would have known.

‘Yakov says you are being an idiot again’.

The voice belonged to a child – a girl, not older than twelve, read-headed and wide-eyed, with the earnest look on her face that Victor had long learnt to associate with her plotting.

‘Mila’, he greeted warmly. ‘Don’t listen to Yakov’.

‘He’s our coach’, Mila pointed out. ‘Aren’t we supposed to listen to him?’.

‘No’, Victor said. ‘It’s more fun when he screams’.

Mila seemed to consider this carefully. She was wearing adorable green gloves that made her look childlike and soft, and for a second Victor almost fell for it.

‘You’re right’, she decided. ‘Yakov says you’re not supposed to show me that picture on your phone’.

Victor hesitated. Were butts appropriate to see if you were twelve? Especially butts which were not naked – Victor wouldn’t mind, of course, but the dark trousers made the butt look positively delicious anyway – but which were almost indecent in their perfection.

‘Yakov’s right’, Victor said, eventually. Mila’s eyes dropped.

‘I would have helped you’, she exclaimed. ‘I would have given you the answer you seek’.

‘Mila, you...’

But Mila’s eyes hardened, her angelic locks bouncing around her head.

‘Go’, she said. ‘Look for your butt alone’.

 

_______________________

**Today at 10:27 AM**

**Victor:** hey Sara i have a question

 **Victor:** please answer asap this is urgent

 **Victor:** do you know any male skaters with butts so fine you wanna weep

 **Sara:** ✓seen at 13:48

 

_______________________

‘

Leave my sister alone, Victor’, Mickey snarled. Victor moved his phone a bit away from his ear, glancing at it curiously. ‘She doesn’t need your weirdo crap in her life’.

Did the Crispino twins share the same phone? How did Mickey know about the text message? Victor wondered absently, half-listening to Mickey’s rant. Next to him, Mila watched Victor with unhidden curiosity, unmindful of her own practice. Victor knew that soon Yakov would confiscate his phone and he would not only miss Mickey’s angry diatribe but above all he’d have no way to look at the butt.

‘Listen, Mickey’, he started, reaching his hand to gesticulate, as if to calm down a spooked animal; it did not matter Mickey could not see it. ‘I swear I don’t want to perv on Sara. I just had a question, Mickey!’

‘Your question was _immoral_ and _corrupted_ and tainted my sister’s eyes, and you...’

A thought flashed before Victor’s eyes. Did Mickey know how Sara once sat next to Victor during an ice dance competition and they swooned at the thighs of the competitors together?

‘Listen, Mickey’, Victor tried again. ‘I promise I won’t ask Sara that question again if you answer me instead’.

That, at least, grabbed Mickey’s attention.

‘You better promise’, he said. Then, heavy breathing. ‘Okay. Fire away’.

Victor took a deep breath. That was it – that was the moment.

‘Do you know any male skaters with amazing butts? I took that picture and I’ve asked _everybody_ and nobody seems to know whose butt...’

There was no reply. Mila skated closer, took one look at Victor and laughed. Her voice echoed in the rink.

Honestly, what was it with his friends hanging up on him?

 

_______________________

 

As days passed, Victor began to lose his faith in humanity. When none of his friends knew who was gifted with such a wonderful butt, he fleetingly considered posting a plea online, hoping that at least his Twitter followers would be better informed than his rink mates. But it did feel a bit shameful, and he dropped the idea, tempting though it was.

He trained, strangely motivated by the possibility of running into the butt man at a competition. Yakov let his sudden enthusiasm slide; Victor thought his coach must have been strangely relieved and a bit suspicious (just in case).  So Victor grinned, drilled his step sequences and nailed his jumps, and considered choreographing a programme with the butt as its central theme. He was sure he felt inspired enough.

‘But it’s something Chris would do, isn’t it, Makka?’, he asked the poodle.

Makka licked his hand and ignored the question.

‘You are a terrible friend, Makka’.

(She really wasn’t).

_______________________

 

As much as Victor tried to skate his anguish out, nothing helped. His time on the ice felt off, like a cup of coffee too strong to be drunk with pleasure. Yakov ended up sending him home early, not even shouting anymore, but only glaring at Victor with half-hearted disapproval.

‘You’re a grown ass man, Vitya’, he said. ‘For God’s sake, can’t you focus?’.                                                                                                                            

 _Ass,_ Victor heard. ‘Yakov’, he perked up, ‘have I told you about the butt I saw at the...?’.

This, it turned out, brought the normal Yakov back; he’d be shouting at him in no time, Victor thought, considerably cheered up.

‘Go. Home’.

Victor didn’t. Home meant Makka, that was true; but other than his dog, there was little in his flat that would bring him joy. Yakov turned away and left, deciding to focus on Georgi instead, so Victor sat down on the bench in the faraway corner of the rink, observing other skaters with less interest than he usually had. The phone in his hand was far more tempting.

Victor unlocked his phone and as always, went straight to his photo gallery. The picture stood out among the others, a pure work of art. This, Victor thought, was what it must have been like for Michelangelo to be inspired enough to carve David out of marble – only this was infinitely better, more real, and maybe art really imitated life, or life imitated art. As Victor gazed at the picture, he could hardly tell one from the other.

 _Fuck._ He was becoming Georgi.

It was Georgi who always contained more feelings than twelve healthy skaters should experience; Georgi, who cried over art and wailed about break-ups, who searched for the things he never knew he’d lost. It was Victor’s life now.

‘No, Vitya’, he muttered to himself. ‘Stop it. Don’t be like Georgi. Don’t be like Georgi’.

‘You’re looking at that picture again, aren’t you?’, Mila asked. Victor didn’t realize she must have walked up to him while he was lost in his thoughts. He hid the screen protectively. Yakov would run him over with the Zamboni if Victor shared the picture with little Mila.

‘I’m appreciating art’, Victor confirmed.

Mila gave him an unimpressed look; Victor didn’t know whether she learnt it from Lilia or whether it was her innate ability to be unruffled by the pleasures of life. Both options were equally terrifying.Victor took a mental note to develop Mila’s aesthetic sensibilities in the future.

‘You’re not Georgi’, Mila said, completely unapologetic. ‘You’re worse than him. Georgi cries over lost relationships. You cry over a lost butt’.

 

_______________________

 

During the next competition – and Jesus, was it only weeks and not _ages_ since the butt epiphany?  - Victor promised himself to behave extra nice so that Yakov had no reason to shout at him. His coach might be convinced of Victor’s selfishness, but Victor himself thought otherwise: if he was nice to Yakov and then overexcited about a possible butt discovery, then it meant he gave Yakov at least some time to be spent without shouting. He could have been overexcited all the time and then Yakov’s vocal chords would need more soothing tea with honey than Victor cared to ever drink.

(That also meant a mollified Yakov who would let Victor do as he pleased, especially so that Victor would be free to set off on his quest to find the lost treasure: the butt.)

Only it didn’t work.

‘Don’t think I don’t know you’re planning something’, Yakov warned. The skin on his forehead, between his eyebrows, spotted an ugly vertical wrinkle, the kind you get from frowning too much. It was always especially visible when Yakov talked to Victor.

(Lilia had already had such a wrinkle when Victor met her as a child. He thought she must have got it because of Yakov).

‘I won’t have you jeopardise the competition because of your ploys, Vitya’, Yakov said. The wrinkle got more prominent, like a weird leech. ‘You’re grounded’.

Stunned, Victor didn’t know which reaction to go with: _I haven’t done anything!_ , to which Yakov was sure to answer, inevitably, _Yet!,_ or _You can’t ground me, I’m an adult, I’m twenty one!,_ to which Yakov would reply, and here Victor had no doubt: _then for God’s sake act like one!_

They were standing in the hotel lobby. This, Victor knew, was more than anything Yakov’s revenge for the butt phone call. The place was public enough that they both realized Victor needed to behave like the living legend he was (and not like the menace he also was). Next to Yakov, Mila was watching the exchange like a curious cat. No doubt all of their rink mates were going to get a detailed account of Victor’s moment of humiliation.

(That was it. From now on they were all banned from receiving pictures of Makkachin. His dog deserved better than to be appreciated by a bunch of traitors).

‘You’re grounded’, Yakov repeated, and Victor had no choice but pretend to be all chummy with his evil of a coach; skaters and other coaches alike passed them by, and Victor knew (painfully, the way you know a toothache) that he couldn’t make a scene. ‘So now you’re going to watch over Mila here and God help me if you do anything _idiotic,_ Vitya’.

‘But coach Yakov...’, Mila pouted. The expression on her face was so earnest and pure that Victor himself gave her a nod of appreciation. This girl was going places.

‘Fine’, Yakov grunted. He looked so constipated, but Victor remained unfazed – that was a normal look for Yakov to wear around his skaters. ‘Fine. Vitya, now _Mila_ is going to watch over you so that you don’t do anything idiotic’.

‘That’s right!’, Mila brightened. ‘Somebody responsible needs to keep an eye on you, Vitya’.

 

_______________________

 

Mila, it turned out, was still so bitter about his earlier lack of enthusiasm regarding her help with the butt pic, that she forced Victor to go sightseeing. Normally, Victor wouldn’t mind at all – he did like discovering new places, and Sweden’s Gothenburg was quite lovely. Mila dragged him to the Haga district where they stuffed themselves with a local speciality – _Haga bullen,_ sweet rolls so divine they were worth skipping the diet and facing Yako’s wrath. They made a pact not to tell their coach about them.

But as delightful company as Mila was, Victor did have a problem at hand – he could not go looking for the butt man with a child at his heels. Mila kept throwing him meaningful glances, fully aware of his dilemma; Victor was sure it was her who had talked Yakov into making him babysit her.

**Today at 11:43 AM**

**Victor:** please tell me you’re free and can save my ass

 **Chris:** you know I’d do a lot for your ass

 **Chris:** what do you need

 **Chris** : ?

 **Victor** : i’m on a lookout for the most perfect butt in the universe

 **Victor:** but i’m also literally stuck here babysitting little Mila

 **Chris:** Victor, mon ami ;)))

 **Chris:** I hope you need my help with the first and not with the second

 **Chris:** text me the address, I’ll be there asap

 

_______________________

 

Chris slid into his chair with the same kind of grace he had on the ice.

‘Hello, Victor’, he grinned. ‘And you must be Mila, my lady’.

Mila nodded. She gave Chris a calculated look and then turned to Victor.

‘I’m sure Yakov wouldn’t like you to meet with him’, she said firmly, in Russian. ‘He means trouble’.

‘Appearances can be deceiving’, Victor replied in kind. In front of them, Chris was just about charm a waiter. Mila threw them a grave glare.

‘I think not’, she said.

The bustle of the cafe made Victor restless. As Chris waited for his coffee and Mila chewed on her third _bulle,_ he fished his iPhone out of his pocket and unlocked it almost lovingly.

‘Christophe’, he said in French. ‘I think I’m in love’.

His friend’s eyebrows went up.

‘Aren’t you in love every month, mon ami? Who is the lucky guy now?’

Victor sighed, dramatically. Chris was here; Chris, at least, would understand.

‘I don’t know his name’, Victor announced. ‘But I know his butt’.

‘As your friend and future best man’, Chris replied, ‘I’m proud of you’.

(Victor was really, really glad Mila didn’t know any French; and more than a bit apprehensive since she was getting annoyed at being ignored).

‘I know you’re being all stalkerish about it’, Mila said. ‘I’m telling Yakov’.

‘It’s not like this’, he sighed, switching back to English. And how he wanted it to be like this. ‘I have this picture of this skater on my phone, and _Bozhe,_ Chris, his butt is _divine,_ the most ideal specimen I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been _searching,_ you won’t believe how long I’ve been searching, but nobody knows this butt, _no-bo-dy’._

Chris, who had just got his coffee during Victor’s panegyrics, looked elated.

‘Don’t worry, my friend’, he said, softly, with emotion, the way you coo at a kitten. ‘You’re in good hands now. I’m a butt master. You could have just texted me the picture’.

‘No’, Victor almost snarled, protectively, ‘It’s _mine_ ’.

 _‘My preciousss’,_ Mila hissed, full of giggles.

(That was it. No pictures of Makkachin for her).

He handed Chris the phone, reluctant to part with it even for the second. Chris barely glanced at it before giving an appreciative hum and sliding the phone back across the table towards Victor.

‘Oh, that’s Yuuri’s butt’, he said immediately, blasé, and Victor’s heart did that thing it had done when he tried to pull off a Bonaly. ‘Yuuri Katsuki’s. Japan’s Junior’s’. He wiggled his eyebrows. ‘He’s turning eighteen soon’.

Victor typed the name down as soon as he physically could, but he knew the letters were already engraved in his heart.

‘Chris’, he choked. ‘Thank you’.

 

_______________________

 

(‘You know’, Mila spoke as they were heading back to their hotel. ‘You could’ve just showed me the picture. I wanted to look at the costume and google the competitors at the GP to see if any of them matched. You’d have had his name in a heartbeat’).

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Dani's ridiculously talented so she writes AND does lots of beautiful art for her fic, and the lovely Yuuri you all could see is painted by her for her [fic.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10988220/chapters/24471636%22%22)  
> And can you blame me when I say I was inspired by that butt? The art's obviously used here with the author's permission, thank you girl <3
> 
> [I'm on tumblr](http://kaja-skowronek.tumblr.com) and [Dani is](http://shslshortie.tumblr.com), too, so come to say hi!


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